Dale threw up both hands, trying to grasp the sinuous thing that had encircled his neck, but the little man jerked the rope viciously and the noose tightened.  The force of the jerk pulled Dale off his balance, and he reeled against the partition.

Before he could regain his equilibrium Owen leaned far over the top of the partition.  Exerting the last ounce of his strength Owen lifted, and Dale swung upward, swaying like an eccentric pendulum, his feet well off the floor.

Dale’s back was toward the wall, and he twisted and squirmed like a cat to swing himself around so that he could face it.

During the time Dale struggled to turn, Owen moved rapidly.  Leaping off the chair, keeping the rope taut over the top of the partition, Owen ran across the kitchen and swiftly looped the end of the rope around a wooden bar that was used to fasten the rear outside door.

Then, running into the front room, he got the rifle, and returning to the kitchen he got on the chair beside the partition.

He could hear Dale cursing.  The man’s legs were thrashing about, striking the boards of the partition.  Owen could hear his breath as it coughed in his throat.  But the little man merely grinned, and crouched on the chair, waiting.

He was waiting for what he knew would come next.  Dale would succeed in twisting his body around before the rope could strangle him, he would grasp the rope and pull himself upward until he could reach the top of the partition with his hands.

And while Owen watched and waited, Dale’s hands came up and gripped the top of the wall—­both hands, huge and muscular.  Owen looked at them with great glee before he acted.  Then he brought the stock of the rifle down on one of the hands with the precision of a cold deliberation that had taken possession of him.

Dale screamed with the pain of the hurt, then cursed.  But he still gripped the top of the partition with the other hand.

Owen grinned, and with the deliberation that had marked the previous blow he again brought the rifle stock down, smashing the remaining hand.  That, too, disappeared, and Dale’s screaming curses filled the cabin.

Owen waited.  Twice more the hands came up, and twice more Owen crushed them with the rifle butt.  At last, though Owen waited for some time, the hands came up no more.  Then, slowly, cautiously, Owen stuck his head over the top of the partition.

Dale’s head had fallen forward; he was swinging slowly back and forth, his body limp and lax.

CHAPTER XXVII

THE AMBUSH

Streak had done well, having slightly improved on the limit set for the trip by Mary Bransford.  With no delay whatever, Williams and his men and the Double A cowpunchers were headed for the ranchhouse, their horses running hard.

Sanderson was leading them, though close behind came several of the Double A men, their faces set and grim; and then one of Williams’ men, a young fellow who had admired Mary Bransford from afar; then some more of the Double A men, and Williams and the remainder of his band of engineers.